


come away, little lass.

by womanning



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, tw self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:54:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/womanning/pseuds/womanning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her hands are water and silk on Sansa’s neck and with brown curls to blind, Margaery dips her face close to Sansa’s, cheek to cheek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come away, little lass.

Her hands are water and silk on Sansa’s neck and with brown curls to blind, Margaery dips her face close to Sansa’s, cheek to cheek. Sansa, tentative and enflamed haired Sansa, she feels the girl’s sides, flesh soft and open to her between the crafted gaps of a Tyrellian dress.

            Sansa’s lips are chapped as she licks at them, as she says, “Your dresses are…They are…”

            “Opportune.”

            “I was thinking”—Margaery’s nose presses against the crevice of her neck—“not like Winterfell’s. Nor King’s Landing.”

            “I would freeze,” Margaery says with hot breath. “As for King’s Landing, well, the red wouldn’t suit.”

            “But gold…”

            “Yes, sweet girl, gold is good. As is silver.” She laughs. “If not less Tyrell.”

            They are curled like cats into one tangle on the green of a garden corner. On knees, gowns dirty, auburn mating with brunette, they stay and listen to the birds, sweat in the heat, hope for wind. She’s sticky, Margaery is—arms glistening in their bareness, but she smells sweet and not of roses, but strong perfumes and grass and woman.

            Sansa’s own attire lacks the authority to grant her a breeze and is heavy on her chest. Margaery is just as heavy, hot and damp and curved into her.

            “Are you sleeping?” Sansa asks.

            “My brother met Renly Baratheon in a garden, too.”

            Margaery holds a red rose in her hand; arm loose by her waist, her brown eyes closed with pink lids.

            “Ser Loras and Lord Renly were great friends…Why do you bring them up?”

            Fingers find their way around the rose and Margaery grips it into fist, bending petals to her will, encasing the body, the thorns. She bleeds and is rewarded with Sansa’s gasp.

            “Oh, nothing, pretty girl.” 


End file.
